Lost and Forgotten
by Lego Land
Summary: (A/L) What if the events during the War of the Ring had been... different? An AU based on a single moment in time: What if Isildur had not been killed at the Disaster of Gladden Fields?
1. Chapter I

TITLE: Lost and Forgotten  
  
GENRE: Lord of the Rings  
  
RATING: R  
  
PAIRING: A/L  
  
NOTES: "Arndor" is my own creation. You will not find it among Middle-Earths history, thus if you wish to understand the story you must read Chapter 1.  
  
Feanor: Greatest of the Eldar in arts and lore, he created the Silimarilli.  
  
Aragorn: Was 88 at the time of the War of the Ring and 207 when he died. For this reason I have excluded ages; thus you must assume that a 10-year old Aragorn would be the aged equivalent of a 5-year old boy (physically and mentally).  
  
REFERENCES: Encyclopedia of Arda http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/   
  
SETTING: Alternate Universe  
  
SUMMERY: What if Isildur and Elrond broke company at odds and the Elves of Rivendell migrated east of the Misty Mountains, severing all contact with Man? What if Isildur had not been killed at the Disaster of Gladden Fields? What if after three thousand years, Elves became little more than fairytales whispered from the lips of Mother's and children?  
  
DISCLAIMER: You know how it works.  
  
CHAPTER I  
  
"Myth is nourished by silence as well as by words."  
  
Italo Calvino  
  
PART 1  
  
Time changes all things. It allows growth and maturity to transform even the most unattractive caterpillars into stunning butterflies. However, this impassive cycle of age continues regardless of life or death; for it also takes the most appealing flowers and withers them to mere dust.   
  
Therefore, it is not surprising that time should take a tale of painful sadness and harrowing courage and warp it beyond truth and reason, until only legend remains. This legend becomes lost amidst the ravages of years and war, losing realism and gaining illusion. Here the tale becomes myth, a story of childhood dreams and fantasy.   
  
Nevertheless, what is myth to some is gilded history to others.  
  
Myths often grow like flora in an unkempt garden: the taller and thicker they become, the more tangled their stems, until one can hardly tell the desirable vegetation from the weeds. Yet deep within the soil, their roots remain the same. If one were to look hard enough, one might find the truth: for better or worse.   
  
Thus, our tale begins, where myth's deceitful, clutching fingers reluctantly release their prey.  
  
PART 2  
  
Once, more than three thousand years ago, there were three separate realms. Arnor, which rested between the Misty Mountains and the Blue and Gondor, which lay between Mordor and the Great Sea were both created by Elendil. Between these two great kingdoms stood Edenwaith, where the secretive Druedain made their home  
  
In the second year of the third age, with the deaths of Elendil and Anarion during the War of the Last Alliance, Isildur became the only remaining heir of Gondor and Arnor. Though the loss of life in Mordor was great, it was far outweighed by the treachery that followed. For when the battle weary troops marched from Barad-dur, the very ring cut from Sauron's hand was in their possession.   
  
It was then that Elves and Man went their separate ways and the thread of events in Middle Earth diverged.  
  
Although mourning the loss of his father and brother, Isildur returned to Gondor triumphant. After a year spent organizing the Southern Kingdom, he passed guardianship to his younger brother's only remaining child, Meneldil. However the new guardian was under serious scrutiny due to the mysterious disappearance of his three older siblings. Although, Isildur was wary of his nephew's cunning nature, he could find no evidence of wrongdoing.   
  
Finally, Isildur and his three eldest sons left for Arnor, the Northern Kingdom. Only a few months into their journey, two of Isildur's sons were killed when Orcs ambushed them west of the Anduin in Gladden Fields. Fortunately - or perhaps not so fortunate considering later events - the One Ring was lost when Isildur's hand and the chain about his neck were separated from his body.   
  
Upon his return to Arnor, Isildur discovered his Kingdom in chaos and his wife in mourning. It seemed that Meneldil; sure that everyone had died in the attack; had informed all of Isildur's death and declared himself King of Gondor.  
  
In III 35, after finally regaining control of the Northern Kingdom, Isildur and his elder remaining son, Aratan, set out to reclaim Gondor with an army at their back. The war produced years of strife and torment eventually resulting in the death of Meneldil. At which time, Meneldil's son, Cemendur took control of Gondor. The Southern Kingdom was wrestled from his grasp less than a year later. This seeming victory had its cost, as all things do; alas, Isildur lost a third son in the final battle.   
  
In the final days of his reign, rather than see another war erupt, Isildur united the Southern and Northern Kingdoms under a single banner. Separating these two kingdoms, lay a barbarous wasteland known as Edenwaith. The three territories combined became known as Arndor. The new monarchy stretched from the Ettenmoors in the north all the way down the western coast of Middle-Earth to the Harnen River in the south. Seventy-four years into the third age, Valandil, Isildur's youngest and only remaining son became Arndor's first king.  
  
Due to its immense size, Arndor was eventually split into nine districts: Arthedain, Rhudaur, Cardolan, Minhiraith, Ened, Anorien, Anfalas, Lamedon, and Lebennin. A steward oversaw each province. Dubbed Lords, these stewards held hereditary positions much like the King. They made up the Council of Nine, which governed the nine provinces by enforcing the King's Laws.   
  
In III 1300, the first signs of the return of the Dark Lord, Sauron, to Middle-Earth were observed as mere coincidence. Carn Dumi became occupied as the stronghold for the northern Kingdom of Angmar. The Witch-King, otherwise known as the Lord of Nazgul, was the mightiest of Sauron's Nine Servants. A thousand years later he would be responsible for the near destruction of the northern half of Arndor. Khazad-dumii, the greatest and most ancient Dwarven city, collapsed beneath the mighty force of an awakened Balrog. The fire spirit, later called Durin's Bane, was too powerful for the Dwarves to control. The survivors fled the Misty Mountains and split into two groups: half made their home in the western peaks of Ered Nimraisiii, while the rest crossed into the East.  
  
The Kingdom remained whole until the Witch-King of Angmar's attacked in III 1409. His forces advanced beyond Fornost and eventually claimed the majority of Arthedain. At that time, the recently formed Dwarven city of Ered-dum replaced Arthedain as the ninth province of Arndor. Although the Province of Arthedain was later reclaimed from the Lord of Nazgul's clutches, Arndor was never again the same. Renamed Eriador, Arthedain was given to a little known people called Hobbits in III 1601. Thereafter, it ceased to be of any concern to Isildur's heirs and was soon forgotten.   
  
Even though Middle-Earth extended beyond the Misty Mountains and the Anduin River, they became mankind's borders. For beyond these natural boundaries, abnormal creatures were said to roam the untamed lands. No one had ever refuted this claim because no Man had ever returned from whence they crossed.  
  
  
  
i Carn Dum: northern tip of the Misty Mountains  
  
ii Khazad-dum: Moria  
  
iii Ered Nimrais: a mountain range in northern Gondor 


	2. Chapter II

CHAPTER II  
  
"Kings are not born: they are made..."  
  
George Bernard Shaw  
  
PART 1  
  
"...When he would not throw it into the fires, the Elf King spoke, warning Isildur of the Ring's danger." Leaning against the window seat's cushioned wall, Gilraen gently caressed the small head of unruly black hair resting upon her lap. Her powder-blue silk dressing gown had become wrinkled from the child's occasional movements. As the boy valiantly tried to stifle a yawn, the young Queen's full, pink lips curved slightly upward. She knew from long experience how desperate he was to listen through to the end. "But Elendil's heir refused, for he reasoned the small trinket was most precious to him, being the cause of his father's death."  
  
"What did the Elf King do, Mama?" The pouring rain beyond the embrasure nearly drowned out the child's murmured question.  
  
"He road out across the battlefield on a tall white stallion with all his people following in his wake." Brushing back a lock of chocolate colored hair that had strayed from the bun atop her head, she whispered, "They crossed the Misty Mountains from whither they came and disappeared. It is said, that in our time of most desperate need, the Elf King will once more ride..."  
  
"You're not telling the boy that fairytale again, are you Gilraen?" a deep voice chided from the open door.  
  
"Papa!" the boy squealed enthusiastically.   
  
Scrambling of the seat, the small child rushed toward his father. Arathorn laughed as he crossed the spacious bedchambers.   
  
Ginning, he leaned down and swept his son into his arms. "Hello, my wee one."   
  
Huan groaned from his place on the thick, green Rohan rug before the fireplace. The old dog lifted his head but remained sprawled near the warmth the burning wood produced.  
  
"It's his favorite bedtime fable, Arathorn." Carefully lifting the boy's head from her lap, Gilraen stood and grazed her lips across her husband's bearded face.   
  
Outside the palace's cold stonewalls, the storm raged on. The young woman flinched as a streak of pale lightening lit up the night sky. She leaned over the seat and drew the heavy curtains closed. Crossing to the bed, she pulled down the large quilts piled on top. Gilraen lifted all but one of the three pillows and laid them on the rocking chair beside the bedside table.  
  
"Do you think Elves are real, Papa?" He strode across the room and gently settled the boy into the warm blankets.   
  
"I'm afraid not," he ruffled the child's thick hair. Arndor's King leaned over and blew out the candle on the bedside table. "'Tis only a story, Aragorn. Only a story."  
  
PART 2  
  
As Gandalf the Gray walked toward the court's apex, he allowed his appreciative gaze to wander. Sunlight filtered through the Linden boughs hanging over the garden's cobbled path. Here and there, delicate yellow blossoms lay strewn upon the ground. They mingled with a variety of other unique flowering vegetation. Jasmine and Honey Suckle climbed over, under, and up every obstacle in their path. White roses, tulips, and pansies flourished amidst the leaves and rocks upon the ground. The path leading to the garden's center was covered in a large assortment of river-stones in various shapes, sizes, and colors.  
  
In his more than two thousand years of life, he had rarely seen anything so beautiful. The North Garden was Middle-Earth's true immortal, for when all other things grew old and faded away, it would remain, in all its awe inspiring beauty.  
  
The North Garden, or White Garden as it was often called, was Tharbad's oldest. Created in III 1976, a massive White Tree grew at its center. A descendant of Nimloth; which stood in the King's Court in Numenor; the gnarled old tree only produced blossoms as the sun fell beneath the horizon. The tree sat within a raised bed, which was surrounded by large marble blocks. This enclosure not only kept the tree safe, it also allowed wanderers to sit and enjoy the garden's peace.  
  
When he finally stood before the White Tree, Gandalf gazed up into the pale limbs. Curled into a tight ball within the bowl of two branches, hid a small boy. The child's navy-blue tunic and charcoal tights were torn and filthy. Dirt, sticks, and leaves decorated the ruined garments. Partly obscured by dark, straggling locks of hair, his tear stained cheeks were flushed pink.  
  
Rather than embarrass the child, Gandalf simply turned and lowered himself to the marble ledge surrounding the tree. As he waited for the boy to react to his presence, he closed his tired eyes.  
  
"'Tisn't fair," the boy eventually whispered.  
  
"Perhaps not," Gandalf acknowledged. "However, it is for the good of the Kingdom."  
  
Aragorn demanded hoarsely. "Father got to choose, why can't I?"  
  
"Your Father is trying his best to unite Arndor and Rohan." The old wizard had never deceived the young Prince and would not start now. "He is more than your Father, boy. He is first and foremost the King."  
  
His shoulders slumping forward, Aragorn sighed. Finally, the youth glanced up and whispered, "But this is my life, how can he force me to marry someone I don't even know?"  
  
"'Tis only a tentative betrothal, Aragorn. The marriage will not occur for many years to come, for the babe has yet to be born." Gandalf soothed. "Until then, you must prove to your Father that you are capable of making decisions, ones worthy of a king."  
  
The Prince blinked. He wondered if Gandalf were implying that his Father might change his mind if Aragorn could think of a better way. For a long moment, he simply studied the wizards aged features. At last, he murmured, "What do you suggest?"  
  
"Oh, my boy," laughed Gandalf. "I cannot give you the answers you seek. Part of being a king is finding your own answers. It may not always be the most fashionable answer, but it must be the correct one."  
  
"Correct for who?" The boy speculated aloud. "Me or the kingdom?"  
  
"Sometimes you will have to make a choice between the two," The mage rose and turned. Reaching up, he laid a gentle hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "That is where the good kings become separated from the bad. But if you look hard enough, oft there is a satisfying answer for both."  
  
"But how do I know what will make me a good king?"  
  
Gandalf smiled gently. Squeezing the boy's thin shoulder briefly, he let his hand fall away. He thoughtfully gazed up into Aragorn's stormy gray eyes before at last replying. "Whatever will allow you to better protect your people."   
  
As the Wizard left the garden, his words echoed throughout the youth's mind. A king protected his kingdom above all else. His own life, his own happiness must fall by the wayside if it did not better the kingdom. Therefore, Aragorn had to find a way to better himself through his Kingdom's needs. 


	3. Chapter III

CHAPTER III  
  
"Ancestral voices prophesying war."  
  
Samuel Taylor Coleridge  
  
PART 1  
  
The hooded rider entered Arndor's capital city for the first time in six months. Dirty and tired from extensive traveling, he desperately wished to stop at one of the many inns within the city, unfortunately he was here on business. Angmar, an Orc stronghold in the north since the Lord of Nazgul's abandonment, was empty. Although the discovery might seem like a blessing, it was in fact quite disturbing. For if the Orcs were not in Angmar, one must ask where they were and why they had left.   
  
Consequently, he'd come to Tharbad to inform the King.  
  
Tharbad had been Arndor's capitol since Fornost'si destruction in III 1974. Built on the south side of Greyflood River long before Elendil's death, the great metropolis was situated almost in the center of the Kingdom. Its balustrade rose just to the east side of the North-South Roadii. Greyflood was widened and the banks elevated to allow for huge stone docks and shipping berths. The project proved far more beneficial however, when the spring after the Fell Winteriii of III 2911 nearly flooded the city. The palace was built on the northern side of Greyflood before it met with the Hoarwell River. Ensconced between the two rivers, with the Misty Mountains at its back, the stronghold was virtually impenetrable.   
  
Cloaked in a dark brown mantle and neutral colored tunic, leggings, and boots, Strider slowly made his way down Tharbad's crowded thoroughfare. Buildings of all shapes and sizes lined both sides of the busy street. Trees and hedges grew before them and within plazas, shielding against sunlight and capturing rainwater before it had the chance to gather. At each intersection along the main road, venders offered goods of every variety. From freshly baked pastries to Anorien forged swords, anything could be bought in the thriving harbor.   
  
In the distance, he could hear the soft echo of the noon bells from the western belfry. The previous night's rainstorm produced drops of glistening sunlight on the far-off Library's domed roof. And the college's gleaming white towers rose above all else. Deeper within the city, far from the highway, homes flourished among gardens and parks. The capitol's constant increase in population had forced its growth across the road, so that rather than pack the original confines, they simply expanded.  
  
At last, Mandos Yanwe'siv stone fore-pillars came into view. The white marble columns rose into the sky on both sides of the drawbridge. Of equal length and width, two massive overpasses spanned Greyflood's wide body too meet in the middle. On either side of the canal stood two guardhouses, each contained several centuries and a winch capable of raising the dual bridges. Thick chains ran from the pulleys up through the columns and down toward the front of each bridge. These allowed the great structures to be raised and lowered at will. It was one of two entrances to the Palace, which was located on the opposite side of the river.   
  
A great stone causeway stretched from the North-South Road all the way to the foot of the Dwarven made bridge. It began once more on the other side of Greyflood and ran beneath the daunting battlements lining the river's bank. The twenty-foot high rampart - a mere two meters from the riverbank - was riddled with long, thin embrasures. Within the arched opening beneath the wall, swung a huge pair of metal-framed gates.   
  
Stopping before the century on the city-side of the bridge, Strider pulled a small medallion from his tunic. On one side, gleamed a silver scepter, while the other side revealed an elaborate tree. It was the symbol of the Rangers, Arndor's protectors. They traveled far and wide: scouting the borders, protecting the provinces, and reporting transgressions. They were the King's justice; thus it did not matter to them whether the offender was a mere thrall or of noble blood. For the most part, the Rangers were incorruptible.  
  
Leaning down to allow the century a better glimpse of the symbol, Strider patiently awaited leave to enter. His name and pass-code were sternly demanded. Briskly returning to the guard post, the soldier checked a thick, leather-bound registry for confirmation. With a negligent wave of his hand, the guard passed him through then turned his attention to the next person awaiting admittance.  
  
Strider calmly rode his charcoal stallion into the cobbled courtyard beyond the mammoth fortification. The horse canted past the circular, bubbling fountain and toward the stables on the western side of the quad. Leaping from his mount's back, he tossed the reigns to the ostler.   
  
Rather than cross the courtyard to the main entrance, Strider slipped to the back of the stable. His pace was slow due to the hay strewn about the brick-covered floor. The double doors at the back of the livery hung open, revealing a wide swath of green. He quickly strode across the grassy field, his steps faltering only slightly as he navigated around horse droppings. Coming to a single door sunken within the castle wall, he gave three consecutive knocks. When a small window slid open at eye level, Strider once more presented his medallion.   
  
With a loud thump and a rattle of keys, the heavy door was slowly pulled open. The Ranger hurried past the guards and made his way through the west-wing of the palace. His cloak billowed behind him as his soft leather boots tapped against the ceramic tiled floor. People stepped aside quickly, some barely avoiding his advancing form.   
  
Rounding a corner, Strider stopped before a large oak desk. Behind the gold-varnished wood sat a plump secretary. The man's small, pig-like eyes narrowed in disapproval at the sight of the sword sheathed at the Ranger's hip. As his thin, pale lips parted, Strider pulled his medallion from the folds of his clothing. Jowls quivering, the secretary's mouth snapped shut. One stubby fingered hand waved the Ranger down the corridor.  
  
The anteroom leading to the King's office resembled a short hall. On either side of the passage, six wing-backed, cushioned chairs lined the walls. Huge, ornate tapestries hung behind them. Vibrant colors and breath-taking realism, combined to create magnificent representations of nature, making the area appear larger than it actually was.   
  
Strider came to an abrupt stop when he noticed the gray robed figure exiting the door at the opposite end of the hall. Slamming the large door closed, the tall man stalked toward him. Atop his head rested a pointed, wide-brimmed hat. It did little to obscure the long gnarled hair traveling down his back and over his shoulders. At which point it combined with the equally unkempt beard.  
  
"Gandalf!" Strider exclaimed. Quickly marching toward the older man, he threw back his hood. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"I had an audience with your father. And you..." The old wizard hugged the Ranger fondly. "I was told you were in the north, Aragorn."  
  
"Orcs are gathering in force, old friend." Aragorn dropped into one of the large chairs. "They have abandoned Angmar and traveled I know not where."   
  
"Mordor!" Gandalf snarled.  
  
"What?" The Ranger's brow furrowed. "Why would they converge on that god-forsaken land?"  
  
"Because the Dark Lord has woken, my boy."  
  
Aragorn laughed. "Sauron? He's just a fairytale, like Elves or... or giant Eagles."  
  
Straightening to his full height, the old wizard glared down at the Ranger. Fire flashed in his gray eyes. The very air seemed to darken ominously.   
  
"He is as real as you or I," Gandalf growled. "Do you think me just a bedtime story, boy?"  
  
Aragorn swallowed nervously. He'd never seen the older man so enraged. Shaking his head, he hurriedly appeased, "No, of course not. I... I just..."  
  
"Men live such short, self-absorbed lives." The mage grumbled as though it were a curse. Turning away, he began pacing the hall. "The King will not see reason either. Sauron is gathering his army and all we do is sit and talk."  
  
"Surely my father has informed the Council of your warning?" Aragorn questioned the wizard.  
  
"He listens to Sarumon's counsel." The old wizard scowled. His robes whirled about his legs as he stalked to and fro. "Sarumon has refused all suggestions that we explore the east. Since Altar and Pallandov never returned, he has forbid us beyond the Misty Mountains. But because we did not try, we did not know of Sauron's return until he began rebuilding Barad-durvi. I fear we have lost to much time already."  
  
"Has nothing been done?" demanded the Ranger.   
  
"You are a Ranger and the heir to Arndor, yet you knew naught about it."   
  
"Then I will speak to him," Aragorn placated. "Perhaps I can persuade him to convene the Council."  
  
"May your fortune be better than mine, young Prince." Gandalf murmured before continuing down the hall. Within moments, he disappeared around the corner.  
  
PART 2  
  
Beyond the castle walls the wind blew furiously. Snow fell in great swaths, swirling and tumbling to the ground. It covered the thin sheen of ice stretching over Greyflood's wide surface. Piles of white built up along the battlements, buildings, and causeway. The fountain in the courtyard and the water in the palace wells froze. Laden with frost, bare tree limbs hung low to the ground. Both man and animal were resigned to remaining indoors for the duration of the storm.   
  
The sudden flurry had sprung from a nearly perfect winter's day, halting road travel and shipping throughout the north. Its like had not been seen since the Fell Winter a hundred years previously. So great was the blizzard, day had become as dark and foreboding as night.   
  
Just off the West Garden, lay the King's office. Thick, dark velvet curtains covered the balcony doors and broad windows, blocking the raging storm outside. Vibrantly colored tapestries adorned the stone walls and thick throw rugs were strewn across the floors. Antique swords, daggers, and spears hung on display here and there, while ancient armor stood on stands throughout the room. A blazing fire in the hearth imbedded within the east wall warmed the massive office. Large wrought-iron bins on either side of the fireplace held cumbersome logs and slender sticks of kindling. An elegant redwood desk piled high with documents and leather-bound books dominated the spacious room.  
  
The thin glass panes rattled in their frames.   
  
King Arathorn briefly glanced away from the figure pacing before his desk. His fat cheeks jiggled slightly with the sudden movement. His eyes focused across the room, he studied the curtains as though it were possible to see through them given enough patience. Nearly hidden beneath the silken coif covering his remaining wisps of dark hair, Arathorn's thick brows furrowed over narrowed, gray orbs. The constant sessions on Arndor's safety had become tedious. Nearly everyone he met with, from administrators to Rangers, insisted the Kingdom was in danger. Both Gandalf and Aragorn had even tried to convince him to summon the Council over a frivolous matter some years previous. Had it not been for Sarumon's assurances that no harm would come to Arndor, he might have done so simply to gain some peace and quit.  
  
Drawing a deep breath, the King pushed his musings to the back of his mind. He turned his attention back to Gandalf. The agitated wizard continued ranting, unbeknownst of Arathorn's preoccupation.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
"... Time is of the essence, your Majesty." Gandalf desperately pleaded.   
  
It had been thirty years since his last visit to Tharbad. Despite his warnings, Arathorn had not called the Council. The King had disregarded multiple Ranger reports of suspicious activity throughout both the Misty Mountains and Ithilienvii. He'd ignored administrators repeated suggestions to increase border strength. He'd even refused to send scouts into Mordor to gather information. His lack of action had not only put his kingdom in danger, it had potentially put all of Arda within Sauron's grasp.  
  
"My friend, 'tis not that we distrust you." Arndor's King gently tried to appease, "We simply believe Sarumon's advice is not to be taken lightly."  
  
"While Sarumon sits in the safety of Orthancviii, your people unknowingly breath their last taste of freedom." The old wizard snarled, "the One Ring has been found."  
  
His eyes widening, Arathorn sat forward. The heavy fabric of his clothing strained against his large frame, seams nearly splitting under the immense pressure. "How is that possible? We thought it vanished into the Anduin when Isildur lost his hand at the Disaster of Gladden Fieldsix."  
  
"For a time," Gandalf confirmed. "However, it did not stay lost. If Sauron gains possession of it once more, all of Middle-Earth will suffer."  
  
"We shall call the Council of Nine to order, will that suffice for now?"  
  
"If you wish your son to take your place in his time, you will send the summons the moment the blizzard recedes," Gandalf's rough, gravely voice warned. Brows furrowed, he glared at the rotund King coldly. "Tell no one of this meeting, your Majesty. You know not whose ears may be listening."  
  
Spinning on his heel, the wizard stalked away from the King. He stopped before the double doors leading to the anteroom only long enough to fling one open. Arathorn's secretary leaped from his chair and scurried down the hall the moment Gandalf's menacing frame had passed. Storming through the busy corridors, the wizard felt the first stirrings of hope flutter within his belly. Perhaps all was not yet lost.  
  
i Fornost: the capitol of Arnor after Annuminas was abandoned  
  
ii North-South Road: runs from Fornost to Minas Tirith  
  
iii Fell Winter: worst winter in Middle-Earth's history, white wolves attacked Eriador  
  
iv Mandos Yanwe: Sindarin for 'Castle Bridge'  
  
v Altar and Pallando: Two of the five Istari (wizards) sent to Middle-Earth  
  
vi Bard-dur: Sauron's stronghold in Mordor  
  
vii Ithilien: part of Gondor on the eastern banks of the Anduin  
  
viii Orthanc: a mighty tower of unbreakable stone in Isengard  
  
ix Disaster of Gladden Fields: the attack on the Anduin where the One Ring was lost and Isildur killed 


End file.
